


Feathers that Flutter and Fly

by orphan_account



Series: Feathers [1]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Multi, bagginshield, wing!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-05-09
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:40:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Shire is taken by Orcs, ravaged and destroyed but Bilbo, who is still very young, managed to escape. He runs, travelling through Middle Earth until he reaches Erebor, where Thorin finds him, cold and starving.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Orcs

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Random Stranger, who left the prompt for a wing!verse where young Bilbo meets young Thorin. Also, sorry if Thorin's not as young as you were imagining- but because of their age difference I didn't want to make him too young because of the different life spans between Hobbits and Dwarves.  
> Hope you enjoy it!

They’d come in the dead of night.

Orcs.

Hundreds of them, raging and roaring and tearing his home apart.

In the time that passed he didn’t remember much apart from the screaming, and the sound of the vile creatures tearing his friends apart, ripping their wings off. 

His mother had hastily stuffed a bag with food and told him to run, to get as far away as he could.

He remembered his feet slapping against the ground, breaking sticks, crushing leaves. He remembered his harsh breathing over the cries that shot through the air. He only looked back once, just in time to see Orcs swarming into what was his home.

He ran and ran until his legs gave way under him, until his chest ached so much in its attempts to get air that he felt his lungs were ripping themselves apart. He crawled under a fallen log, wings curling round himself for protection, and shivered and sobbed until his tears ran dry and he passed out.

He was too young to really know what to do next, only seven years old. Though that was a good thing in some ways, as he was too small to be noticed on most occasions and could easily pass through the towns of men without being seen (or caught when he reached up and stole an apple or an orange from the occasional market stall).

He kept travelling east, not really sure what else to do, even passing by a city of Elves in his travel. He’d stayed in the forests, sitting in a tree, gazing out as they walked past fluidly, like ghosts- their clothes fluttering in the wind.

He’d been entranced, but too frightened to stay, and as was his wont, he moved on.

He came to a dark, frightening wood whose groaning trees and twisted branches warned him of great dangers. So instead he made his way north, with hopes of walking _around_ the forest instead.

And after a very long time (what seemed like an eternity to such a young soul) he found himself at great mountains, vast and stretching high.

With awe, he wondered closer, only to find a barren wasteland- he was in Ered Mithrin, the great Grey Mountains his mother had told him about in his bedtime stories. Wondrous stories about Durin’s Folk and how they’d been forced to abandon all strongholds. Bilbo had always loved the stories about the Dwarves.

Their strength and courage; they were as strong and stubborn as the rocks they mined for- unyielding and always stationary. Their fascination with jewels and gold fascinated Bilbo, who had been raised to believe that the most important thing in the world was family.

One which he had no longer.

This made him infinitely sad and he sat at the edge of the mountains, looking up at them, tears running down his cheeks. He missed sitting at home by the fire, his mother running her hands through his feathers to untangle them after he’d run through the forest, on some imaginary adventure.

And then a thought occurred to him. If he was here, at the Grey Mountains, then he must be close to _some_ Dwarves. He knew two great Kingdoms lay east, the Iron Hills and Erebor. So perhaps that was why he was continuing in this direction. Perhaps he was trying to hold onto one last shred of his mother.

Bilbo sniffled, considering this new development. He’d never seen Dwarves before, but he knew they were big. Not as big as men or elves, but certainly bigger then Hobbits. Everyone was always so big, and Bilbo was always so small. He huddled into himself, wrapping his hands around his feet.

He’d come this far. And he had always wanted to meet the Dwarves, strange creatures that they seemed. So, with a determination only a Took could have, he got to his feet and began his trek east.

And after many weeks of exhaustion and starvation the mountains became smaller and thinned out, and in the distance a great, solitary peak came into view.

Erebor, the Lonely Mountain: one of the last great Dwarven kingdoms. He would be there soon.

His feet were bloody and bruised by the time he reached the great gate, the hair on top of them knotting and matted together. His exhaustion was failing him, his wings were drooping, but he continued on, even smaller now from malnutrition, passing by the guards silently.

He needed somewhere to sleep- _safely_. He managed to find somewhere relatively devoid of noise, and curled up, shivering from the cold, falling into an uneasy but necessary slumber.

 

* * *

 

“You got lucky.”

Thorin scoffed, rolling his eyes at Dwalin, who was grimacing up at him from the ground of the sparring field. It was getting late, and soon they’d have to go inside, Thorn returning to his duties as Prince, but for now he was allowed to be simply another soldier, sparring with a friend.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he replied, crossing his arms over his chest.  “But if that eases your wounded pride, so be it.”

Dwalin grumbled, pulling himself to his feet with a groan. “Next time,” he promised, pointing a finger at Thorin. “Next time I’ll get you, and your baby whiskers,” he yanked at Thorin’s beard.

“Enough of that,” Thorin snapped. “You know I keep it short because of mourning.”

Dwalin just shrugged, big shoulders rolling. He already knew the reason. Many of his people were killed in the battles for Moria, including his grandfather.

As a sign of respect his father, he and his brother both kept their beards short.

Well, for Frerin it was more because he didn’t have much of a beard to begin with. But the thought was still there.

Thrain had sat on the throne with a weary heart, crown heavy on his head, and Thorin had watched him with sadness and pride.

“You’d better get back to your duties.” Dwalin was saying, though Thorin hardly heard it was he so lost in thought.  “And I’d better get back to mine. Balin will kill me if he finds I was late to my nightshift.”

Thorin reluctantly agreed, unenthusiastic to return, and parted ways with his good friend. He was on his way to the royal halls, mind occupied by thoughts of a hot meal, mead and a good night’s sleep when he heard the whimpering.

It was so quiet that at first he thought it had simply been his mind. But the noise continued and Thorin walked towards the small crook between the buildings, finding a small figure huddled inside.

He was certainly small, to be able to fit in such a tiny gap, and Thorin knelt down, trying to get a closer look. That was when he saw the wings. Tiny, broken things they were, trying desperately to curl around his body and give him some warmth.

Thorin glanced down the street to ensure no one was watching.

Wings were something Dwarves kept bound, hid from others. They got in the way while mining and battling and for many they were considered something only family and lovers saw. To reveal them in public was the highest taboo.

Thorin reached into the gap, gently picking the boy up, and moved him out onto the street before taking his furs off and curling them around his shaking figure.

He certainly wasn’t a Khuzd, that much was certain. He wore unpractical clothes and had rather large hairy feet. His hair was short and curly and there wasn’t a spot of hair on his face, though Thorin supposed he was quite a young thing, so facial hair wouldn’t have grown just yet if it could. He also had pointed ears, not as much as an Elf, though. They were more rounded, but they still came to a small little point at the top. Thorin resisted the urge to run his finger over the tip now.

The poor thing looked cold and starving, and Thorin felt an odd rush of compassion. Usually anything with a point to its ears elicited a growl from him.

But this creature was no Elf. At least, he didn’t seem to be. So what was it? And why on earth was he in Erebor? _How_ on earth did it get into Erebor, might be a more important question. Thorin sighed and picked the little thing up. He’d take him to the royal halls, get him fed, and perhaps see if it could talk to him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So obviously Thorin's old by Hobbit standards, but in his own culture he's still very young. I just imagine that Thorin is just a young boy who's being forced to act like an adult because of his situation.  
> Also, I sort of imagine wings to be like this extremely private thing for Dwarves, something they only show to their One or whatever.


	2. Bound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me a little longer to update than my other fics! I've gotten a bit lazy when it comes to doing them lately.

Bilbo woke up surrounded by warmth, which led him to believe that perhaps he’d been set on fire. It had been a long time since he’d been in a bed before, and when he opened his eyes to find himself surrounded by a warm blanket, snuggled into a cushiony mattress. He sat up quickly heart racing, and scrambled from the bed. But it was too big, and he almost fell on his face when he slipped off. He felt pressure against his back and chest, and suddenly realised he couldn’t move his wings. He glanced down, pulling up his tunic to reveal leather straps.

_Bound._

His wings had been _bound_.

He cried out, desperately clawing at the buckles, trying to release his wings. He must have alerted someone to his presence, because suddenly he could hear footsteps coming closer. Feeling much like a caged bird, he spun about, looking for some place to hide, and managed to weasel his way between the wall and a set of drawers, shaking.

The door creaked open, and silence followed. He heard heavy boots fall across the room, slowly walking.

“It’s alright,” a voice said now, so close that he jumped in shock, knocking the drawers and giving himself away. “I won’t hurt you.”

He saw a figure move around the drawers, and suddenly a dwarf knelt down in front of him. He crammed himself as far backwards as he could, so he couldn’t be grabbed.

The dwarf sighed, looking at him with king blue eyes. “It’s alright,” he assured Bilbo , lifting one hand to show him a bowl of something that smelled utterly delicious. “You must be hungry. I brought you some food.”

Bilbo was starving, but didn’t move. Instead, he eyes the man and the bowl cautiously.

“It’s alright.” The dwarf assured. “Look,” he set the bowl down in front of him now. “I’ll just put it here, and you can stay where you are and eat it.” He shuffled backwards a few feet before sitting down and crossing his legs beneath him. “Go on,” he urged. “Eat.”

Bilbo scrambled forward a little, movements slow and guarded, and reached for the food. His hands curled around the bowl, delighting in the warmth, and he pulled it up to his chest, spooning some of the food into his mouth in eager hunger.

It was the best thing he'd ever tasted, and he moaned in pleasure. The dwarf rumbled a laugh at his reaction. Bilbo finished it in less than a minute, almost choking, but he was so desperate for sustenance he didn’t care. “Maybe you should come out now.” The Dwarf suggested, looking at him carefully. “It can’t be very comfortable in there.” Bilbo considered it. “I promise you’ll be fine. You were hiding for a reason so I didn’t tell anyone about you.”

He watched the Dwarf for some time.

“Secret?” he asked now. The Dwarf nodded.

“That’s right. Secret.”

Bilbo slowly shuffled forward, wriggling his way out of the small space.

“My name is Thorin,” The Dwarf told him, helping Bilbo to his feet. “Thorin Durin.” He looked down at Bilbo. “You are?”

“Baggins,” he replied, voice very small. “Bilbo Baggins.”

“Bilbo,” Thorin repeated with a smile. “Nice to meet you. Now…” he frowned at him, “what exactly _are_ you?”

 

* * *

 

Thorin would have informed his father of the Hobbit’s presence sooner; if not for the fact the creature seemed so terrified of other people. Though he decided it might hurt Bilbo if Thorin gave him away, but he could see he was injured, and malnourished and in need of a healer.

“The Shire?” Thrain had asked, rubbing a hand over his chin. “That is a very long way for a child so young to travel. Did he tell you why he left?”

“Last I heard there were Orcs ravaging that area,” Frerin chimed in, “the people in the Blue Mountains are preparing to fight them as they draw nearer.”

“You believe The Shire has fallen?” Thrain asked with a frown.

“It is quite possible, I suppose.” Thorin replied. “He doesn’t seem too interested in sharing.”

“He’s young,” Dis declared, “he’s probably traumatised. Any memories he’d have would probably be repressed because he’s not emotionally mature enough yet to deal with them.”

“Psychologically and physically drained, I imagine, from his travels," Thrain sighed.

“He is very small,” Thorin agreed with a nod. “I imagine even by Hobbit standards.”

“I’ll get Oin to care for him,” his father informed him. “We’ll let him stay where he is now, we don’t want him panicking at all.”

“Is he eating?” Dis asked Thorin.

“Shovelling it down his mouth faster than I can get it to him.”

“And his wings?” she prodded, and Frerin coloured at the mention of wings, but Thorin answered, dead-panned.

“They look frail; broken.”

Thrain considered his words. “Oin had better take a look at them as well.”

“What do we do with him after he gets better?” Frerin asked, brow furrowing.

“If he has no family left then we’ll take care of him,” Thrain answered simply. “Children are gifted things and I will not have us just send him on his way if he is alone.”

Thorin was glad for his father’s words, though he couldn’t imagine why. It seemed completely illogical that a creature he found on the street should become so important to him. But, like his father said, the Hobbit was a child. And with such a low reproduction rate within their culture, children were cherished by their kind. Yes, that must be why.

It had nothing to do with the creature’s piercing eyes that twisted his stomach when they were laid in his direction. Nothing at all.

 

 


	3. Bindings

So the time passed and Bilbo grew up surrounded by Dwarves who treated him as one of their own, who taught him how to read and write Khuzdul, to fight with a sword, to work in the forges- a;though it soon became apparent that even if he learnt these skills, that didn’t mean he had to enjoy them.

As time passed, though, that became an accepted fact throughout the kingdom. More tolerated than anything else, perhaps, merely due to his race. Not everyone knew what a Hobbit _was_ , but because of Bilbo everyone knew what a Hobbit was made for. Peace and kindness and gardening.

In fact, as he aged, Bilbo managed to get a number of gardens installed throughout the kingdom, and it became a favourite pastime for many surprised Dwarves.

It also became apparent that Hobbits aged differently to Dwarves. Soon enough, he was of age in Hobbit years, though certainly still a babe by the standards of Erebor. But it was clear to all that Bilbo was now an adult, and was to be treated as such, even if his size may lead one to think otherwise.

One who certainly seemed to notice the sudden change from Hobbitling to Gentlehobbit was Thorin, the King’s son. The two were almost inseparable in their younger years, though as Bilbo grew, so did their distance.

They certainly weren’t enemies, in fact quite the opposite. But Bilbo no longer trailed after Thorin with wide, adoring eyes.

Instead he roamed on his own, investigating all the narrow halls and twisting corridors the kingdom had to offer. And as the Hobbit realised his adulthood, so did Thorin, who’s eyes would now follow him when he walked across a room.

It was something that was whispered about throughout the markets and around the inns. Because the Hobbit certainly was the specimen, even if he had no beard and ears like an Elf. He held a sort of sweet quality, with his unruly golden curls and his bright eyes as bright a green as the jewels the Dwarves were known for mining, and in the way he always held a welcoming smile. He was a pretty thing, certainly not made for mining or forging, but perfectly suitable to sit by a King. In fact, many agreed he would be much like a jewel, complementing the ruler, the throne and the Arkenstone that sat above it. And he was well admired and well liked.

Not only by the Royal family, but by everyone.

It was hard to hate a creature such as Bilbo Baggins.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo was exhausted. He’d been out all day, helping Ori find some new books, and after that he’d gone to the markets and gotten some new ingredients to help Bombur make a new recipe. After that he’d been to the sparring grounds to watch Fili and Kili (and maybe Kili roped him into an archery contest- which he lost miserably) and even after all that, he still had to go to Dale with Dwalin to meet with the Mayor, keeping up pleasantries.

As soon as he was allowed to, though, he was off, wandering through the woods, looking at the flowers and the mushrooms and the birds and the trees. That is, of course, until Dwalin came to find him with a frown, scolding Bilbo for giving him the slip.

Bilbo had heaved a sigh and let Dwalin drag him away back to the ponies, and he’d watched the sky while they rode back to Erebor.

He didn’t really know much about Hobbits, but he was sure they weren’t supposed to live the way Dwarves did. Bilbo remembered his Hobbit hole, or at least flickers of it, and he knew it was underground, but it was nothing like The Mountain.

He remembered the big windows on the side of the house, letting in as much light as possible; he remembered hearing birds when he woke up in the morning... the only thing he heard when he woke up here was the noise of miners and the chatter of people down in the city streets.

Not that he didn’t love Erebor, of course he did. He loved it. This was his home, after all. But he had a home in The Shire, as well. One he desperately wished to see once more. Frerin had told him how the Rakhâs in the area had been fought off, and the Hobbits that had survived had rebuilt and started life anew there. He wondered what it was like there. All green rolling hills and sunshine, like he remembered?

“I spoke to Thrain this morning while you were at the markets,” Dwalin said, “He said he can make time for you tonight before dinner.”

“Thank you, _Sharah_ _-_ _Khuzd_.” Bilbo replied now, grinning. Dwalin rolled his eyes at Bilbo’s nickname for him. Unfortunately for Dwalin, it had caught on, and now most of the Royal Court was calling him the same.

“I suppose I can’t ask what yer talking about with him so privately.”

“You’d be right in that assumption.” Bilbo replied gently.

“Must be important,” Dwalin commented, “if you can’t talk to him about it around the rest of them.”

“It’s a personal thing.”

Dwalin inclined his head politely. “Fair enough,” he grunted.

Bilbo shifted uncomfortably atop the horse. His bindings were too tight. He needed to get back to his quarters so he could release them and stretch his wings. One thing he had never really gotten used to was the bindings. He knew that for Hobbits wings were something you wore openly, tended to with good friends and family, but here, in Erebor (in any Dwarven city) wings were a taboo thing. They were bound constantly and hidden from all but a Dwarves One, their soul mate. Bilbo found it all very odd.

Dwalin raised an eyebrow, watching him squirm. “Uncomfortable?”

“You have no idea.”

Dwalin chuckled, shaking his head. “You’d think after so long you’d be used to it.”

“It’s more psychological than physical,” Bilbo said, brow furrowing. “It just seems to _wrong_ to keep them covered. I remember before The Shire was taken that everyone wore their wings openly. It was something you took pride in.” Dwalin made a face. “Don’t look at me like that. I think all your prudish bindings are ridiculous but I don’t go around making faces at you when I see you.”

“You shouldn’t say such things. People will think you-”

“Odd?” Bilbo finished. “I’m a Hobbit living with Dwarves, I’m already odd. But it’s not like I’m going to walk around with my wings bared- I’d hate to cause a scandal.”

They fell into a small silence.

“We are not prudish,” Dwalin muttered suddenly, looking a little irked. “We just know that wings are important things- they’re sacred. And sacred things are shared with your soul mate, not strangers.”

Bilbo just rolled his eyes. “I don’t pretend to understand your culture, and I know you don’t understand mine.” They reached the gates now, and dismounted, walking the horses up the last of the way. Someone took the horses, moving them towards the stables, and Dwalin moved towards the sparring grounds to find Kili, who would still be practicing his archery, and moaned when Bilbo turned in the opposite direction.

“I’ll be fine,” Bilbo insisted, waving him off. “I can make the rest of the way on my own, I’ve done it before. I keep saying I don’t need a guard.”

“You say one thing, the King says another- I have to obey him, not you.”

Bilbo just snorted. “Go chaperone Kili, Dwalin,” he said over his shoulder as he walked.

Dwalin threw his hands up and let Bilbo walk off, making his own way back towards the grounds.

So he walked along, smiling as he passed by people he recognised, and sighed in relief as he reached his quarters. He shook off his jacket and pulled off his tunic, all but clawing at the buckles of his bindings to get them off. He let the leather straps fall to the floor, delighting in the feel of wings stretching out either side of him. He stretched in content, rolling his shoulders and fluttering a little. The movement felt delightful.

How painful it must be for the Dwarves who kept their bindings on even when they slept. How sore and disused their wings must be.

How sad it made him.

He needed to be somewhere where he could be himself in this way. He _needed_ to go back to The Shire, to see his own kind again. He’d just hope that Thrain would allow him.

 

 


	4. Permission

“You want to _what_?” Thrain stared at him from over his table where piles of paper were stacked. He looked utterly confused and more than a little angry.

“I’d like to go home- to The Shire.”

“This is your home,” Thrain disagreed. “You cannot expect us to simply let you go-”

“I just want to visit,” Bilbo cut him off quickly. “Of course I want to return. I just want to see my own people again. I’ve lived almost my whole life here among Dwarves, and it’s not that I feel out of place or left out, it’s just that I remember nothing of my culture, and I’d like to experience just a little of that.”

Thrain didn’t seem impressed.

“If you refuse to let me go, I’ll just leave myself and go on my own,” he continued. “I travelled here when I was seven by myself and I’m sure I can make my way back there on my own-”

“I refuse to let you leave on your own.”

“Then send someone with me. Think of it as a holiday. Be reasonable, Thrain, please,” he beseeched. “If you were forced out of your home wouldn’t you want to return someday?’ Thrain sighed, shoulders sagging inward, and he pressed a hand to his face.

“I would,” he admitted. “You’re right. You have every right to see your homeland again.”

Bilbo’s mouth stretched into a wide grin. “Thank you! Thank you!” He rushed over and hugged his adoptive father. Thrain laughed, even though Bilbo knew he was irked.

“You’re going to have to break it to the others, though,” Thrain informed him as he pulled away. “I’m sure they’re trying their best to listen at the door, so you can do it now, if you wish.” Bilbo walked to the door and pulled it open and, as Thrain had guessed, three Dwarves came tumbling inside, looking sheepish.

“Fili, Kili, Frerin.” Thrain greeted them dryly, still in his seat. "Why is it when something happens around here it's always you three?"

Bilbo crossed his arms over his chest, trying his best to look angry. “You’ve been eavesdropping on my private conversations.”

“We’re sorry, Bilbo!” Fili and Kili cried in unison. “We’re sorry!”

Frerin rolled his eyes, not bothering to apologise.

“Are you going to tell us what’s going on?” he asked instead, getting to his feet and brushing himself down. “Well?”

Bilbo sighed. “I’ve been talking to Thrain about going home to The Shire for a little while-” The uproar he got was loud and angered.

“You can’t leave us-!”

“Why would you want to-?”

“Did we do something-?”

“You can’t go! You can’t, I won’t let you-”

“ _Enough_!”  Thrain’s voice boomed across the room, making them all jump. “It has already been decided. Bilbo will visit The Shire. _Visit_ ,” he repeated, “and only visit. He will return. And I was rather hoping he would have some companions for the long journey.”

“I’ll go!” Kili declared, shooting a hand up.

“I will, too!” Fili added, copying his brother.

“Well, obviously, I’m going.” Frerin said, giving a shrug as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“You’ll have a small army by the time they’re done.” Thrain commented now.

“Uncle Thorin will want to come, too!” Kili informed him. “And Ma-”

“They won’t be able to go,” Frerin finished. “Dis is due to travel to the Iron Hills with your father this month and Thorin is obliged to stay here with father.”

Thrain nodded. “He is.”

“He won’t be happy about that,” Frerin pulled a considering face. “I’m not going to be the one who tells him.”

“Me neither!” Both the boys cried out in unison.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “I suppose that means I’ll have to.”

He sighed, wondering how Thorin would react.

 

* * *

 

“You look anxious,” Thorin commented as Bilbo knelt in front of him that night, finishing an intricate braid in his hair as they sat by the fire in his quarters.

Bilbo gave a shrug. “It’s been a long day.” He finished the braid, sitting back and inspecting it. “There.”

Thorin ran a hand over it. “You should let someone do yours,” he declared, to which Bilbo snorted.

“It just slips out. My hair’s not like yours.”

Thorin just pursed his lips.

“Actually,” Bilbo maundered now, “there is something I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Yes?”

“I already spoke to Thrain about it,” he began, “so if you get mad there’s nothing you can do about it, okay?”

Thorin narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Fine,” he said now. “What is it?”

“Thrain is allowing me to visit The Shire for a few weeks, and-”

“What?” his voice flicked out flatly like the crack of a whip.

“I’m going to The Shire.”

“The hell you are.”

Bilbo sighed. “I knew you’d say that.”

“I refuse to let you go,” Thorin told him.

“You only say that because you know you can’t come with me,” Bilbo countered.

Thorin’s frown deepened. “The hell I can’t.”

“You’ve gone from ‘ _no, I can’t go_ ’ to ‘ _I need to go with you_ ’. Make up your mind.”

“If you’re going I’m going with you,” Thorin informed him.

“Thrain made it very clear you need to stay here- and you know that, too. Look,” he sighed. “I’ll be fine. I’ll have people going with me, and it’ll only be for a week or two.” Thorin remained stoic and unconvinced. “I would have liked you to be encouraging, because I’m going anyway, but if you’re going to act like that, then fine.” Bilbo got to his feet. “I’ll be packing,” he said over his shoulder as he left. “If you feel like being grown up you can come and help me.”

Thorin stared after him as he left, glowering.

 

 


	5. Farewells

Thorin didn’t come to his room to help him that night, nor did he speak to him for most of the next day. Bilbo had gone to find him before he left, but he hadn’t been in his quarters, or with Thrain. Bilbo just sighed, muttering about the stubbornness of Dwarves, and made for the stables.

Fili and Kili were there already, running circles around a very frustrated-looking Dwalin. Bilbo couldn’t blame them, and he assumed Dwalin couldn’t either, which was why he hadn’t slapped them up the back of the head by now. The furthest they’d been was to the edge of Mirkwood, and even then they had been surrounded by guards.

Frerin finally arrived, followed by numerous lasses, speaking of heroic deeds and great adventures. Bilbo rolled his eyes and finishing packing his pony, and soon enough they were setting out, passing through the Great Gates, Thrain and Dis waving them off.

Bilbo was more than a little upset that Thorin hadn’t shown up, but he didn’t let anyone see it. Thorin could hold a grudge for an incredibly illogical amount of time. If he had a disagreement with someone, he could go without speaking to them for days.

Hardly the proper way for a future King to act, but it seemed to be incredibly hard to break him out of the habit. It wouldn’t go away, not completely, even if he managed to repress it mostly. Bilbo knew this for a fact, simply because he knew Thorin so well. He also knew that he wouldn’t let something as silly as an argument stop him from seeing Bilbo off. Just because Bilbo didn’t see him, doesn’t mean he wasn’t there.

He was still angry, though. So much so that he remained mad until the trees of Mirkwood came in sight. That was when he got excited.

He hadn’t gone through Mirkwood as a child. The twisting trees had groaned a warning that he had heeded. But now they had Elves to guide them through, and Bilbo was very eager to see what had become of the once-beautiful Greenwood.

The relationship between Elves and Dwarves was a rocky one, really only kept by means of trade. They cooperated at the minimum level because they needed each other, but that certainly didn’t mean they had to like one another. But Bilbo could understand the Elves, just as he could the Dwarves.

Thranduil and his father had fought side-by-side with the Thrain’s ancestors, and were all but wiped out. And after the forest Thranduil ruled over had turned twisted and dark, corrupted by Sauron, it had been another wound to carry. So it was natural the Elves be wary of any presence in the forests, and to be wary of the Dwarves, or the Men.

Though both Dwarves and Men were too stubborn to realise this, and took it as insult, when it was merely caution and wisdom earned through many years of living. Dwarves seemed to forget how long the Elves lived for, but Bilbo didn’t. They were beautiful, wondrous creatures, and he spent much of his time in awe of them.

Dwalin just rumbled, looking uncomfortable, and FIli and Kili whispered to each other about them, as though they couldn’t hear.

“It would not bode you well to look into the darkness for too long," Thranduil informed him as he gazed at the twisted trees. “They will lie and trick you into betraying the path.”

Bilbo turned back to him. “Of course. Thank you for guiding us through your wood.”

Dwalin rolled his eyes at Bilbo’s politeness.

“I would prefer to show you through myself than have you wandering on your own. Woods can be dangerous places.”

“We appreciate the time you’ve taken to be our escort,” Bilbo insisted gently.

Thranduil’s lips twitched in amusement. “Such an odd creature to be travelling with Dwarves,” he commented. “I was led to believe they sneered at anything with pointed ears.”

Said pointed ears heated up now as Bilbo flushed in embarrassment. “

I suppose there is some kindness in Dwarves hearts.” Thranduil considered now. “Perhaps,” he added, not looking too convinced.

Bilbo smiled. “Sometimes,” he agreed. “It is their disposition to be stubborn, though, I imagine. Aulë created them from the earth so it seems fitting that they are similar to stone: stubborn, stout and strong.”

Tauriel and Thranduil almost laughed, which would have been a fete for anyone to accomplish, but Dwalin made a face along with FIli and Kili.

“We are not stubborn!” Fili insisted now.

“Oh, yes you are,” Bilbo replied, though the words held no heat, in fact, more fondness than anything else. “Just as I am a pacifist. These are aspects of our races that we can’t control.”

“Very philosophical for a Hobbit.”

“Hobbits are not philosophical?”

“Perhaps in some ways. Though they have no desire to learn of other races, such as you have. It is not their wont. Perhaps they're philosophical about gardening.”

“Do you know much about Hobbits, King Thranduil?” Bilbo asked.

“No one knows all that much about Hobbits, I’m afraid. They are very private creatures. In fact, most have never seen one at all. They can pass unseen if they wish, though most do not bother travelling out of their homeland.” He glanced over his shoulder at him. “You are quite the oddity.”

A strange creature among Dwarves, an oddity among Hobbits: would he fit in anywhere? Would he ever _belong_ anywhere?

With the aid of Thranduil and his guards, they were through Mirkwood in a matter of hours, though by then Bilbo was wondering if this was such a good idea.

Thranduil gave them his farewell and moved to leave, and Bilbo watched them disappear back into the woods, wondering why Elves didn’t have wings.

 

* * *

 

“We ought to make camp for the night,” Dwalin said, dismounting as they reached the foot of the Misty Mountains. “Make the trek at first light. We won’t have time to make it over if we leave now.”

Frerin jumped off his horse, eagerly searching for wood. “Good,” he groaned, moving along the ground and snatching up sticks eagerly. “I’m starving.”

Fili and Kili dismounted too, pushing at each other and laughing. Bilbo sighed and slowly did so himself, giving Myrtle a pat when his feet touched solid ground.

“Good girl,” he told her, running his fingers through her mane.

They set up for the night and Frerin got a fire going, taking out the first of their supplies and making dinner while Fili and Kili sang songs, trying to annoy Dwalin. It seemed to be working well enough, that much was evident when Dwalin threw a large chunk of firewood at Fili, hitting him smack in the face.

“Hey!” he whined. “That’s not fair.”

“Shut up and you won’t get another,” Dwalin lifted another piece of fire wood, and both boys fell silent. Frerin snickered. Fili just narrowed his eyes at Dwalin, as if he were planning something.

Bilbo winced, knowing where this was going.

 

 


	6. The Shire

The mountains were cold and full of peril and more than once one of them had slipped, almost falling to their death. Bilbo’s heart had gone to his throat when he lost his footing, and he clutched at the rocks for a moment after, trying to calm his heartbeat.

It took them a whole day, and as much of the night as they could muster to go over the mountains and reach the other side. The mountain had started to slope down as the sun set, and Dwalin made them push on, with hopes of reaching the bottom before it got too dark. It hadn’t worked, and they were forced to camp, unsheltered, between some rocks for the night.

Bilbo had hardly slept, wrapped up in every blanket he had, shivering- his teeth clattering. The others did better, mainly because they coped quite well with the cold, whereas Bilbo didn’t. He was not made for harsh winds.

But somehow, he made it through the night and the next morning they packed up and finished their trek down the other side of the mountains. He was very glad when the snow ceased and he could begin to feel warmer winds.

At this rate they would reach Rivendell in a few days time. Bilbo would get to see the elves again, the ones that he had stared at in awe so long ago. He was both excited and terrified. Would they be anything like Thranduil and the Elves of Mirkwood? Or the surreptitious Elves of Lorien, who were rarely ever seen. The closer they got the more anxious he became.

Dwalin seemed to notice. “Keep calm, Bilbo,” he told him with a slap on his back on their last day of travel. “They aren’t as bad as Thranduil’s lot.”

Bilbo didn’t think Thranduil’s lot were all that bad, but he appreciated Dwalin’s attempts to placate him.

They reached Rivendell by nightfall and as they moved, Bilbo began to recognise some of the great Elven city. Great stretching buildings, airy and open, the smell of damp grass and flowers, it was all just as he remembered. Though his view had been from behind the trees.

The elves were just as big as he’d remembered too, tall and lithe and full of grace.

Lord Elrond greeted them, smiling politely, and invited them to dine with him. Quite starving, they readily agreed, though Dwalin informed them it was nothing like a Dwarven feast.

“What the hell is this?” Kili muttered, forking through the salad.

“They’re called vegetables, Kili,” Bilbo replied gently. “Eat them.”

“Where’s the meat?” Fili demanded.  “This is... _rabbit food_.”

Even Dwalin seemed unimpressed.

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Be polite,” he ordered under his breath, glancing down at his own bowl.

Fili, Kili and Dwalin grumbled, but remained silent nonetheless.

Later that night as he was making his way to his room he found Fili and Kili whispering and giggling outside of Dwalin’s door.

“What are you two up to?” he asked with a frown, hands on hips, and they both jumped.

“Nothing, Bilbo,” Fili informed him.

“We swear.” Kili insisted. But they both looked sheepish, and he knew they were up to something. Though he was far too tired to scold them for it.

“If you’re going to play pranks you might want to keep it down- Dwalin will hear you coming from a mile away.” He kept moving, walking past them as he spoke.

“Not over his snores, he won’t! They sound like a dragon’s roar!” They both burst into laughter, leaving Bilbo to shake his head at them, turning the corner and letting them disappear from his line of sight.

He was so very tired, and more than a little depressed. He had hoped for Thorin to see him off. He didn’t like it when they fought. Thorin was his closest friend.

And, of course, there were things about him that Bilbo didn’t like. His stubbornness, for one. And his hotheadedness. But as much as he hated those things, he loved them just as much.

He fell into a fitful sleep, jolted awake early the next morning when Dwalin awoke to find he had been dressed in an Elven Maidens dress.

 

* * *

 

Soon enough they were passing through Bree, and the closer they got to The Shire, the more he saw of Hobbits like himself. They all looked the same as he did, of course, with cherub-like curls, big rosy cheeks, rounded bellies, and large hairy feet.

They certainly dressed different, though, all in elegant waistcoats and comfortable looking trousers. They wore no fur and carried no weapons, and they all looked upon Bilbo and his companions with a fair amount of scorn and curiosity. It made him nervous.

But, oh, he remembered those hills. Those round, rolling green hills. And they made him happy. There were Hobbits here Hobbits had returned to The Shire after it had fallen, they had rebuilt it, they had moved on with their lives.

They reached the centre of the town, climbing off their ponies and checking them in to the local stables. The Hobbit man had looked at him curiously, but had said nothing.

Then they went to find an inn.

“They’re all so small,” Kili said, sounding surprised.

“What were you expecting?” Bilbo gestured at himself. “Giants?”

Fili snickered. “They all look like children.” He watched a small group of them as he spoke.

“I think those ones _are_ children, Fili.”

“Come on,” Dwalin lead the way down the road, “I’m starving.” After a few minutes walking they found somewhere to have lunch, and when they entered the inn went completely silent.

“Right,” Dwalin pushed through the openly gaping Hobbits and to the front counter to order while the others shuffled to the seats.

“This is awkward.” Kili muttered. “And look at them,” he leant in closer to Kili, “wearing their wings so openly. What is that?”

Bilbo was wondering why they were staring at him so confusedly, and then he realised. “Oh!” His wings were bound. He was a _Hobbit_ with bound wings.

“What is it, Bilbo?”

“I need you two to help me take my bindings off.”

“ _What_?!”  Fili all but jumped a foot high at the request.  “Y-y-you can’t just ask us to...” He spluttered indignantly.

“I’m a Hobbit,” Bilbo replied simply. “My wings are supposed to be worn freely.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Fili put his hands up, protesting, “Uncle Thorin would kill us.”

“If you two don’t help me, then I’ll just ask anther Hobbit to do it for me.” Kili’s mouth fell open in shock and Fili blushed. Bilbo just sighed and got to his feet. “Fine. I’ll try to do it myself.” He gave a wry grin to them before he left. “You two should try it yourselves- you might actually like it.”

“I will not have him bearing his wings in public!” Fili declared before Kili could get a word in.

Bilbo ignored them, finding his way to the lavatory, where he pulled off his coat and hiked his tunic up, unclasping his buckles. The bindings slipped off, and his wings spread free, stretching. He let out a relieved sigh. _Much better._

Dwalin almost choked on his ale when Bilbo returned to the table.

“What are you doing?”

“Fitting in,” Bilbo replied huffily.

“But everyone can see your wings,” he argued.

“That’s the point, Dwalin. We don’t feel the need to bind our wings like you do. You need them hidden for working in the mines, or fighting, and you feel that they’re some sort of taboo thing- but Hobbits have no need for those sorts of things.”

Dwalin made a face. “Thorin is going to kill us if he finds out-”

“Would you stop saying that?" Bilbo asked with a frown, reaching for his mug. “Thorin isn’t here, he barely found it necessary to see us off, so it is none of his business.” Hewanted to vent a bit more, but knew it wasn’t appropriate, so instead drank and inspected the other Hobbits from afar to occupy himself.

It seemed to distract him quite well.

 

 


	7. Memories

“Well, bless me, is that Bilbo Baggins?” Bilbo had heard the voice while they were walking through the markets, and had come to a stop, glancing about him. “I think it is!” He came face-to-face with a Hobbit only slightly older than he was, with a wide smile and happily crinkled eyes. He looked vaguely familiar.

“Do I know you?” Bilbo wondered.

The Hobbit’s smile widened. “It is you!” he cried. “Oh, how lovely it is to see you again!” he crushed Bilbo’s hand in his own. “You don’t recognise me, you said? Well, I suppose we were both very young last we saw each other. Name’s Hamfast. Hamfast Gamgee.” He chuckled. “Bless me,” he said again. “Bilbo Baggins. _Bilbo Baggins_ ,” the name caused a few people to glance over curiously.

“Bilbo Baggins?” he heard someone whisper.

“Is it really him?” another said. “He certainly looks enough like his mother.”

“We hadn’t a clue what had happened to you after the attack,” Hamfast continued, oblivious to the attention they were getting. “To be honest,” he leant in, as if whispering a secret, “a lot of people thought you were dead- but I was sure, I said ‘that Bilbo can run very fast, you know’, and I just have been right.” Hamfast gave another laugh and crushed Bilbo in a hug. “Oh, how good it is to see you after so long. Look how you’ve grown! And your wings-” Hamfast touched them, hands running over the feathers. Bilbo wasn’t used to the contact and jumped. In his peripherals he saw Dwalin just barely manage to restrain Fili and Kili, who were looking livid.

Bilbo pulled a little back now, still managing to keep his smile in place.

“Such lovely wings.” Hamfast said, looking at them curiously. “A lot like your mothers, if I remember clearly.”

“You knew my mother?”

“Oh, everyone knows everyone here. Look,” he clapped his hands together, “why don’t you come over for tea? We can have elevensies and smoke some Old Toby and you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to- your friends, of course, can come along, too.”

“We weren’t going to let him go anywhere alone with you,” Fili snarled, and Hamfast raised his eyebrows.

“My,” he breathed. “A bit crude, aren’t they? That’s the way with Dwarves, though, isn’t it? From what I hear anyway,” he chuckled again. “Never seen one in the flesh myself, not many of us dare to venture any further than Bree, and even then we’re being adventurous. But I image you have a few stories to tell, Bilbo Baggins.”

“What is elevensies?”

Hamfast looked shocked. “You mean you’ve never had _elevensies_? But you do know about second breakfast, don’t you?”

“I... I don’t...”

“Lord above,” Hamfast pressed a hand to his chest, “Did they raise you like some sort of barbarian? A Hobbit not knowing about elevensies,” he scoffed in shock, “it’s unheard of. We’ll have to fix that. Come on now,” he began to walk through the crowd, gesturing for Bilbo to keep up. “I’ll give you a good lesson on how elevensies is supposed to be done. My wife Bell will be very pleased to hear you’re back.” He clicked his tongue. “Not knowing elevensies,” he repeated. “Unbelievable.”

“That’s a meal, then, I suppose,” Bilbo said, trying to keep up with him.

“Why, yes! We have about five to seven meals a day.” He looked at Bilbo over his shoulder before casting a disparaging glance to the Dwarves. “If you’re not eating that much then they’re starving you.”

“We are not starving him!”

“We only have three meals a day.” Bilbo said, ignoring Frerin. “But I’ve never gone hungry.”

“Only three?”

“Oh, but they’re big meals. Feats. The biggest you’ve ever seen. With twelve different kinds of meat, and cheese and bread and tomatoes and gallons of ale...”

“Sounds like a party.”

“It is very much like a celebration.” Bilbo told him, looking about at the trees and the green grass. “By the end of it there’s not a scrap left on the table.”

“Huh,” Hamfast mused. “Well, perhaps if they’re big enough meals you can live on three. But it’s not natural. Not for a Hobbit.”

Bilbo hardly thought he counted as a natural Hobbit, but he didn’t say anything.

They came to stop at a beautiful yellow rounded door, one similar to the one Bilbo dreamed about often. “Come in, come in,” Hamfast pushed the door open and gestured for Bilbo to follow him in. “Welcome to my home.” It was stuffed with furnishings, comfortable looking chairs, little tables with portraits, desks with many books piled on top. And a great deal of pots lined near the windows.

“Oh my,” it was the complete opposite of any Dwarven architecture he’d ever seen. It was closed in and cosy and warm, and the roof wasn’t even that high. His wings accidentally brushed the wall, almost knocking off a portrait that hung there.

“Don’t mind that,” Hamfast laughed. “Last week my Bell almost broke a vase the same way. This way to the kitchen.” He led them through a labyrinth of hallways, until they reached a warm, well-lit and very well-stocked kitchen.

Hamfast sat them down at the table, muttering to himself as he grabbed plates and set a number of things in front of them.

“So,” he said as he set a plate of ham down on the table, “a Hobbit, living with Dwarves? That’s a bit odd if you don’t mind me saying so.”

“There’s nothing odd about it,” Kili snapped. “He’s our Hobbit.”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo apologised. “Its fine, Mister Hamfast.”

“Oh, please, just Hamfast.” He turned and set his kettle on above the fire. “There’s no ‘mister’ about it.”

Bilbo smiled at him.

“Tea?” Hamfast asked.

“I’d love some.”

“What brings you back to Hobbiton? Not that you’re not welcome, of course,” he insisted quickly. “You were just away for so long.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been very far away, in the East. In Erebor, the Dwarven Kingdom.”

“Oh, my,” Hamfast took a seat across from him. “It certainly sounds interesting.”

“It’s a lovely kingdom. Very different to here, though.”

“I can imagine. I mean, just look at your clothes.” Hamfast gestured at them, looking confused. “They seem a bit ridiculous to us folk here. I suppose your architecture is much the same.”

He didn’t think Hamfast meant it as an insult, but Fili, Kili, Frerin and Dwalin all appeared to be offended.

“It’s a beautiful place,” Bilbo cut in before any of them got the chance to get mad. “Dwarves are very fond of making their kingdoms much like the jewels they mine. It is its own jewel, in a way.”

“But nothing beats a Hobbit Hole, I think.” Hamfast jumped off his seat as the kettle began to whistle. “Speaking of Hobbit Holes, I can show you Bag End, if you’d like.”

Bilbo dropped the bit of ham he was going to eat. “You could?” he asked. “I mean, the people who live there now wouldn’t mind?”

“Oh, no one lives there.” Hamfast shook his head. “After your parents... well, no one wanted to be in there.” Bilbo looked down at his feet. “I fixed it up when we came back, of course,” Hamfast continued, “Kept everything that wasn’t broken. It belongs to you, you know.”

“It does?”

“Of course it does.” Hamfast chuckled. “This is your home.”

Kili opened his mouth to argue, but Fili grabbed his hand, silencing him with a shake of his head.

“I’d love to see it.”

“Good. Well, food first,” Hamfast gestured at the spread he had supplied on the table, “and then I’ll show you up to Bag End. It’s just up the road.”

As angry as the Dwarves were, they certainly enjoyed the free food, and Hamfast was quite kind, so Bilbo knew he would soon win them over.

As soon as they were finished eating, contented and sated, Hamfast led them back outside and up the pathway, towards Bag End. But Bilbo didn’t need him to lead. He knew his way already. He had dreamed it enough times before. The bright green door that came into view jolted his stomach in memory. Memories of family and sunshine, but also of screams of pain and fire and running for his life.

He pushed the gate open now, slowly walking up to the door and running his fingers over the painted wood. He glanced back at Hamfast, as if for permission.

“Go on,” he told him.

He grasped the handle, pushing it open, watching as his old home was revealed to him.

It held the silence and stagnancy of death, which made him infinitely sad. But he remembered running through these halls and laughing, recollections which washed against the painful reminiscences he had. Cognitive dissonance battled inside his head as he walked the halls, trying to figure out how he felt about being back.

“This is it?” he heard Kili whisper.

“Hush,” Frerin scolded him. “This is his home, where he was born and raised- just as Erebor is ours.”

Bilbo stopped in the living room, where the only piece of furniture that had survived was his father’s favourite chair. He couldn’t bear it.

He rushed from the room, following down the hall and into what had once been his bedroom, closing the door and sliding to the floor, sobbing openly.

 

 


	8. Gliding

He didn’t leave the room until later that afternoon, when his tears had well and truly dried.

They were waiting for him in the living room, looking concerned, but he waved it off. “I think that’s enough for today,” was all he could manage. Hamfast nodded and led him to the door.

But instead of walking to the gate, Hamfast lifted onto the tips of his toes and spread his wings out, gliding a few feet off the air, over the fence door and set down again on the other side of the gate.

Bilbo remembered Gliding as a child, but he’d never been able to quite remember how he did it. “How do you do that?” he asked Hamfast now, walking to where he had landed.

“Do what? The Gliding?” his eyes widened. “You mean you _don’t even know how to Glide_?” Bilbo just shook his head. The look Hamfast gave the others would have melted ice. “What have they done with you? Kept you locked in a dark room like some sort of prisoner?”

“Can you show me how to do it?” he asked Hamfast, ignoring the protests of the others. “I remember doing it a little when I was young, but...” he frowned. “I don’t really recall the steps to take.”

“Well, I’ll teach you. _Someone_ needs to take good care of you.” He took Bilbo’s arm and led him away, giving the Dwarves another glare. “It’s absolutely horrid,” he announced, probably more to himself than to Bilbo. “Absolutely horrid. It’s neglect! It’s not right at all.” He frowned at Bilbo. “You must stay. I simply can’t let you leave with those _barbarians_.”

Bilbo held a hand up behind him to stop Dwalin from grabbing the poor Hobbit by the collar and throwing him into the river.

“ _Barbarians_!” He heard Frerin mutter scornfully. “We are no barbarians.”

“It is not like that, Hamfast, really," he insisted. “Dwarves are not like us, and they don’t know what we are like. I’m the only Hobbit they’ve ever met (well, up until now anyway), and even I did not know how Hobbits behaved, because I was so young. I was simply raised by Dwarven standards. There is nothing neglectful about it.”

Hamfast narrowed his eyes, but relented nonetheless. “If you insist...” he murmured. “But I’ll be keeping a stern eye out.” He shot a suspicious glance at the others over his shoulder. “Now, why don’t we go into one of the field and I’ll show you how to glide.”

“Oh, yes!” Bilbo replied eagerly, a bounce forming in his step.

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure you don’t want to try?” Hamfast asked Dwalin as they watched Bilbo in his latest attempt at Gliding. Each time he tried, he got a little better, and he hadn’t fallen once in the past few turns. In fact, the more he tried, the farther he found he could go.

He laughed in delight as his feet touched the ground once more. “You really should try it!” he insisted. “It could be very useful in battle.”

Dwalin scoffed. “I would not have my wings bared in battle. It would be foolish indeed.”

“You’d be able to balance and fight better without them bound," Bilbo argued. “It must be painful.” He knew it certainly hurt him to have his wings bound at all times.

“You get used to it.” Dwalin replied.

“I didn’t,” Bilbo said simply.

Kili looked pained at the announcement.  “But you have to wear them. The Dwarves would-”

“He doesn’t _have_ to do anything, lad,” Hamfast informed Kili.  “He’s a Hobbit, not a Dwarf.”

“He is a Dwarf!” Fili argued. “He’s an honorary Dwarf.”

Bilbo laughed at that.

 

* * *

 

It was quite late that night and he was sitting in bed, halfway through a good book when he was interrupted by a knock on the door. He heaved a sigh, flipping the book closed, and got up to potter over to the door.

He pulled it open to reveal a very anxious looking Dwarf Prince.

“Kili,” Bilbo frowned at him. “What’s wrong?”

“Could I come in, Uncle Bilbo?”

Bilbo smiled. “Of course.” He pulled the door open wider, silently ushering him in. “Come sit down.” He led him to the fire, where two heavy chairs sat. “Now, what’s on your mind?”

“I just...” Kili’s face crumpled.  “You won’t stay here forever, will you, Bilbo?”

Bilbo’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“ _I mean,_ ” Kili looked down at his hands, twisting pitifully in his tunic, “you can fly here and wear your wings openly, and everyone says we’ve been mean to you, and-”

“Oh, hush now.” Bilbo put a hand on Kili’s shoulder, leaning forward so he could look Kili in the eye. “How can you think I’d just leave you? Erebor is my home, Kili. I may not have been born there, but I was raised there, and that’s where all my family is. And we never leave our family, do we?”

Kili shook his head, hair falling in his eyes. “We don’t.”

“Exactly. And you’re my family. Why would I stay here if you left?”

“Because they’re Hobbits, and _you’re_ a Hobbit.”

“Yes, but we’re different in many ways. These people have no want to travel or explore or go on adventures. They favour gossip to pass the time. You really think I’d belong here?”

Kili gave a small smile. “No, not really.”

“So you’ll stop worrying?”

“Yes, Bilbo.” He rubbed a hand over his eyes, wiping away the tears there.

He gave Kili’s leg a pat. “Now, let’s just enjoy our little break, and then we can go home in a few days. Okay?”

Kili smiled openly. “Okay,” he sighed, relaxing into the chair. “I think I can do that.”

“Good.”

 

 

 


	9. Preening

“Fili, you should try it!” Kili announced as he stood waist-deep in the river. “It’s alright, too. No one ever comes here- Bilbo tells me Hobbits are quite afraid of water.” Fili was just frowning at the ground. “Fili,” Kili whined. “It’s fine.”

“How is it fine?” Fili demanded to know. “ _Anyone_ could see you.”

“I just told you no one ever comes here.” Kili stretched his arms wide, unbound wings following suit. “It’s nice!” He splashed some water at his brother. “Come on,” he urged, “the water’s nice.”

Fili gave an exasperated sigh, pulling off his furs and muttering to himself.

“That’s the spirit!”

“Shut up,” he told Kili, removing his boots and trousers. But he had to admit, the water _was_ nice.

“Are you really going to keep your wings bound?” Kili asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yes.” Fili stated tightly. “And you ought to have as well.”

“But we’re _alone_.”

“Then I can do this,” Fili told him simply, reaching out and running his fingers through Kili’s feathers. Kili made a keening noise in the back of his throat, moving closer and leaning his head on Fili’s shoulder as he smoothed out his feathers. They hadn’t done such a thing since they had last been in Erebor, and Fili was glad to finally get the chance to preen his brother.

“I could do yours,” Kili murmured into the skin of his shoulder, touching what he could of Fili’s bound wings.

“Later,” Fili informed him, ignoring the jolt of heat that shot through his body when Kili touched his feathers. “Let me finish yours.” Big, glossy, soft brown wings that matched Kili’s eyes. A common colour, brown was, though Kili’s wings held many shades of other colours, glittering in the light like some sort of wonderful kaleidoscope.

Kili always had been more comfortable with his wings than Fili had his own. He was next in line to rule, after all, and he hadn’t the luxury of being as carefree as his brother was on occasion.

Fili’s own wings, a Robin Egg Blue, always remained bound, unless he felt the particular need to be preened, wherein he would sneak into Kili’s room and sit on his bed while Kili ran his fingers through the feathers, straightening them.

His wings twitched now with the memory, but he couldn’t allow himself the sumptuousness.

“Bilbo had lovely wings.” Kili said now, eyes drooping closed. FIli felt a little jealous spike at the words, but he knew they were said in a lovingly way, and held no lust.

Besides, he had to concur. “They are,” he replied. “But we mustn’t tell Uncle we’ve seen them.”

“Oh, no,” Kili agreed. “He’ll throw us both off the side of the Mountain if he ever finds out.” He hummed when Fili hit his soft spot, wriggling against him a little. “Such a rare colour, though,” Kili continued, obviously delighting in the feeling of Fili’s fingers in his feathers. “I keep wanting to cover them- all the other Hobbits are staring.”

“Bilbo would be unhappy though, I suppose, if we threaten them.” Fili released Kili’s wings now, having finished his preening. “There,” he pulled back, inspecting them. “All done.”

“You sure you don’t want me to do yours?” Kili asked, stretching lazily. He really was beautiful, Fili thought, even when you didn’t consider his kaleidoscope wings. Though Kili probably wouldn’t like it if Fili said such a thing aloud.

“It’s fine.” He insisted. “Later, perhaps.” When they were in a room, where they couldn’t be interrupted or walked in on.  “Let’s just enjoy the water for now.” And then he’d help Kili put his bindings back on, which physically pained him, although he’d never admit it. He never liked seeing such lovely wings bounc. But it was either that or let others see them, and he refused for such a thing to happen.

 

* * *

 

“They look like they’re enjoying themselves,” Bilbo told Dwalin and Frerin as they watched Fili and Kili drinking in the inn that night.

“They had a good morning,” Dwalin replied, lifting his own mug to his lips. “And the weather’s been nice.”

“Yes,” Frerin agreed. “Very sunny.”

They fell into a short, tense silence.

“Look,” Dwalin sighed eventually, obviously tired of small talk. “I don’t mean to sound... pushy, but I would strongly suggest we leave soon, so we miss the colder months when we travel. It’s nearing autumn, and the mountains will be even more hazardous than they were when we first left.”

Bilbo murmured his agreement. “It is nice here,” he added, insisting. “I’m enjoying it. But I would like to get home soon.” And the trek would be a long one.

Dwalin looked pleased by his reaction, as if he’d been expecting an argument.  “Well,” he said, “good.” He took another sip of his drink, turning his attention back to the boys.

“And I would like to see Rivendell again,” he murmured. “The Elves were friendly. Strange that they don’t have wings, though.”

“You haven’t read the lore?”Frerin asked, with a surprised look on his face.

“Hmm?” Bilbo asked.

“There’s a whole section on it in the libraries at Erebor.” His adoptive brother explained. “I’m surprised you haven’t devoured them all whole yet.”

“You have books about Elves in the library?” Bilbo had never seen such books.

“Of course,” Frerin chuckled. “We have books on all races. Well, none about Hobbits- but perhaps we can purchase a few for the library.”

“What does the lore say?” Bilbo wanted to know.

“Elves are magical creatures. They enchant the very air around them. It is said their wings are made of such enchantments; made of magic. They’re invisible to all but themselves. Only one Elf can see another’s wings.”

“Oh,” Bilbo smiled. “That sounds lovely.”

Dwalin scoffed. “For you, maybe. It just makes the rest of us more suspicious.”

“Bilbo,” Frerin broached cautiously. “Can I ask you something?”

“What is it?”

“It’s about... your wings.” Dwalin shot Frerin an icy look. “What? He wears them openly; I figure I can ask a question about them.”

“You’re perfectly welcome to,” Bilbo told him gently.

“Are they... _normal_?”

“Normal?”

“Well, the Hobbits look at them quite strangely, and I’ve never seen anything quite like them before.”

“Oh,” he glanced over his shoulder at his shimmering wings. “I never really thought much about it...” Now that he did, though, he couldn’t remember anyone who had wings like his. “I’m not sure, to be perfectly honest.”

“They’re sort of like jewels.” Frerin told him, moving closer. “They’re so... translucent.” He reached out, as if to touch them, but Dwalin slapped his hand away.

“Just because you’re in Hobbit-land, does not mean you can stop acting like a respectable Dwarf Prince.” Dwalin glanced at Bilbo now. “You really ought to bind them, lad. By Dwarven law if someone touches your wings that isn’t your One, I’ll have to break their fingers.”

Bilbo’s eyes widened. “I don’t think that would be appropriate. Frerin was just curious, is all.”

“It’s against our customs.” Dwalin stated simply and Frerin shrugged sheepishly.

“I won’t touch them,” he promised. “I wouldn’t ant anyone touching _my_ One’s wings.”

Bilbo grumbled about Hobbit’s not having Ones, and finished his drink. “I think I’m going to go upstairs and get some rest. Hamfast said he’s going to help me get some proper Hobbit clothes tomorrow.”

Frerin looked displeased, but played it off as nothing.

“Make sure they’re useful,” Dwalin called after him. “You can’t travel in a poncy waistcoat.” Bilbo rolled his eyes and made his way to bed.

 

 


	10. Going Home

“You're sure you have to leave?” Hamfast asked him, watching him pack. “I mean, we’ve all taken a shine to you, and this is your home, after all.”

Bilbo smiled at him. “My home is Erebor. And I’m missed there, so I must go.”

“Well, you’ll be sure to write.”

“I will, Hamfast,” Bilbo promised. “And you’ll have to tell me how you did in the market competition. I’m sure your tomatoes will win.”

“Three years in a row!” Hamfast puffed with pride. “I’m sure I can win a fourth.”

Bilbo chuckled. “I’m sure you will,” he agreed, closing his bag up and slinging it over his shoulder.

They hugged at the front of the inn, saying their goodbyes. “And remember to take off your shoes once in a while.” Hamfast whispered to him, pulling back and giving him a wink. “Along with your wings.” He gestured to where they would be, were they not bound. Hamfast shook his head. “I don’t understand it one bit, but if you say it’s alright...”

“Goodbye, Hamfast.” He mounted his horse. “I’ll come back as soon as I can to visit. You’ll keep Bag End safe for me?”

“Of course I will, Mister Baggins.” He gave Myrtle a pat and stepped back. “It’ll be just the same the next time you come round.” Bilbo didn’t want to think about that, about the solitary chair sitting in the living room by the fire, so he just smiled and tried to think about the weather instead while they set off.

“It’s good to be going home,” Frerin said after some time. “I mean, The Shire is nice. But it’s no Erebor.”

“We can spar without getting strange looks,” Fili agreed. “And they have such small meals!”

“But frequently,” Bilbo added. “So they really do end up eating as much as we do.”

“Regardless,” Kili stated now. “It’s nice to be going home.”

Bilbo found that he agreed wholeheartedly.

 

* * *

 

The people of Erebor greeted them eagerly when they arrived. Bilbo had to admit, though, it mainly consisted of the group of women Frerin had farewelled last time, all watching him dopey-eyed, waiting for some great tale.

Bilbo just rolled his eyes and dismounted, wanting nothing more than to change and get something to eat. He reached his quarters, tossing his pack down on the bed and slipping off his heavy boots and jacket. Then, sighing, he collapsed onto his mattress and looked up at the posts of his bed.

“Thank Mahal,” he didn’t want to see another horse for at least a year and a half.

The familiar sounds of a bustling city below soothed him into sleep.

He was woken by a gentle, almost hesitant knocking on his door. Blearily, he rubbed his eyes, slipping from the bed and padding over to the door. He was surprised to find Thorin there.

“Bilbo,” he looked tense and very, very tired.

“Thorin.” He pulled the door open further. “Come in. I was just having a nap.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt...” Thorin hesitated in the doorway.

Bilbo just continued on inside, leaving him standing there. “It’s fine,” he insisted. “If I’d slept through the afternoon I wouldn’t have been able to get any rest tonight anyway.” He sat on the edge of his bed. “Did you need something, or were you just coming to say hello?”

Thorin chuckled, moving into the room and closing the door behind him. “I wanted to see you. It has been a while since we last spoke. And we didn’t part on the greatest of terms.”

“Well, that was your choice, not mine.”

“I know,” Thorin agreed. “I’m well aware. I would apologise, but...”

“But you hate apologising,” Bilbo finished with a smile. “And there’s no point apologising about a thing you do once a week, is there?”

“Well, I’m trying,” Thorin insisted, taking a seat beside him on the bed. “It’s not like I can just stop talking to people once I’m King, is it?”

“No, you can’t.” Bilbo didn’t blame him. He was still so very young by Dwarven standards, and he had so much pressure on him. One day he’d make a great King, but for now he was simply a Prince with too many expectations. It was like he was being moulded into something he wasn’t prepared to be just yet. Bilbo pitied it. “You’ll be better. One day.”

Thorin sighed in irritation. “I want to be better _now_.”

“You’re one-hundred and thirteen, Thorin. You’re barely considered an adult.” By Hobbit standards he was an old man, but Bilbo could see he was anything but.

“I’m a perfectly reasonable age to be considered an adult, thank you,” Thorin replied, miffed. “Too old to keep up bad habits.”

“You’ll be right,” Bilbo laughed now, rubbing his arm. “You just have to find a Dwarven lad or lass to keep you in line.” Thorin frowned at him. “What? It’s true. Everyone always says that’s what sorted your father out.”

“It also crushed his spirit when she died.”

“That’s because she was his One. We both know that’s a rare thing. When you marry it’ll probably be more for gain with another clan than anything else- but that won’t mean you won’t love them.”

“I have no wish to marry a Dwarven lad or lass.” Thorin rolled his eyes. “I have no wish to marry anyone but my One.”

“I was just saying,” Bilbo told him defensively. “It’s something you’re going to have to consider. I’m surprised Thrain hasn’t married you off already.”

“Father hasn’t ‘married me off’, as you so crudely say, because he knows of my intentions.”

“Oh, yes, yes, very romantic. Finding your One. Good luck with that.”

Thorin laughed, looking amused. “I’ve always been very lucky,” he replied with a smile, but it didn’t touch his eyes.

“Come on,” Bilbo got to his feet. “I think I need something to eat, and I’d like to see the others.”

Thorin followed him out of the room and they made their way to the food halls.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a side note, Thorin was around seventy when he first found Bilbo, so it’s been forty-three years. Bilbo is now 50. Also, I was asked about Bilbo’s wings, and I had a look about. They’re sort of a number of different colours, and translucent-like. Like a hummingbird or the Greta oto butterfly. I think it’s also known as The Glasswing Butterfly or something. I’ll add a picture.  
>   
> And the hummingbird.  
> 


	11. Certainly Should

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got asked about the Dwarves ages, so here you go:  
> Thorin – 113 (I think, I forget what I told you guys in the other chapter and I’m too lazy to look it up).  
> Dis – Maybe 108. Dis married early to a Dwarf from The Blue Mountains or something, and I suppose Thrain would have only allowed it so early on in her life because it would strengthen ties between the clans (but also because she loved him… obviously. But they aren’t Ones. I suppose she was like, sixty, which is barely an adult- I suppose it’s sort of like getting married right out of high school or something.)  
> Frerin – About 100. So he is technically an adult, but he behaves like a baby. He barely even has a beard (but don’t tell him I told you so).  
> Fili & Kili – Dis had them when she was 62 or thereabouts, so they’re 48-ish. Still young, but I like to think that this is the time when the Royal Dwarves are taught how to travel and fight and blah, blah, which is why they went with Bilbo to The Shire. It was sort of like a first test for them to see how they would go. Think of them like tweens on a really long car trip.  
> Dwalin – 113, same age as Thorin, (maybe a year younger or older).  
> Balin – 130 (though he acts much older).  
> Ori – Let’s say 90-something. Still very young, but considered an adult.  
> If it doesn’t make sense blame my sleep deprivation mixed with university assessment stress. Who else haven’t I mentioned? I’ve got no clue. If you’d like more information just comment, but for now I’ll let you actually get to reading the new chapter.

“It’s Bilbo!” he turned at the voice, finding a small, happy looking dwarf with braids tied in his reddish hair.

Bilbo smiled. “Hello, Ori. Hello, Dwalin,” he greeted the dwarf beside him. “Well rested?”

Dwalin gave a nod. “Well enough.” The reply made Bilbo blush and choke on a chortle. “It’s nice to be back.” He put an arm around Ori’s shoulders.

“Well, Dwarves don’t like to be away from their Ones,” Ori smiled up at Dwalin, and Bilbo glanced away, feeling as if he were interrupting a private moment. “You’d know,” he told Bilbo.

Bilbo frowned. “What?”

Ori opened his mouth to speak, but Dwalin waved a hand at him, cutting the words off before he could speak them. Bilbo frowned, wanting to ask, but didn’t bother. He wouldn’t get an answer anyway.

“Actually, Ori,” he said instead. “I was talking to Dwalin a few days ago on our trip about Elven lore. He and Frerin mentioned you had some books in the library?”

“Oh, yes,” Ori looked eager now. “Many! I can show you, if you’d like?”

“That would be wonderful, yes.”

“I heard you learnt how to Glide,” Ori whispered as soon as Dwalin was out of ear shot. “Dwalin said it like it was the worst thing in the world, but...”

Bilbo grinned. “It was great.”

“It was?”

“I got a few feet without falling, and my wings held me perfectly fine.”

“What’s it like?” Ori asked him.

“It feels amazing. It felt... well, it felt like I had my own freedom, my own independence.”

“It sounds wonderful.” There was a longing in Ori’s voice.

“It was,” Bilbo informed him. “You should try it.”

Ori blushed now as they entered the library. “I couldn’t,” he insisted. “I could never...”

“I’m sure Dwalin would be happy to show you- he knows how it’s done, so maybe if you ask him.”

“You think he’ll agree to that?”

“Maybe.” Bilbo gave a shrug. “I don’ think he’ll have a problem, as long as it’s done privately.”

Ori grinned. “Maybe I’ll ask him.”

Bilbo smiled at him in return. “You certainly should.”

 

* * *

 

He had his nose buried in a book in a secluded corner of the library when Thorin stormed in, looking more than furious.

The obvious fury radiating from him was enough for everyone else to leave them alone. Bilbo set his book down very slowly.

“Thrain will be very unhappy if you break anything,” he said calmly, watching him very carefully. Thorin stopped completely, just staring at him for a moment. Finally, he sighed, shoulders relaxing a bit. Though the customary scowl remained in place.

“I was told you released your bindings while you were away.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “I did, yes,” he answered. “And there is no earthly reason why you should be mad.”

“You understand that such an act is considered... _inelegant_.”

He snorted. “Is that your way of calling me a whore, Thorin?”

“I said no such thing.” Thorin looked highly offended.

“By your standards my actions make me as such,” Bilbo replied, waving it off. “But I don’t care. You’re well aware that Hobbit’s are different from Dwarves in this manner and _I am a Hobbit_.”

Thorin bristled. “No one else should see you wings-”

“They’re _my wings_ ; I get to choose what to do with them.”

“You can’t!” Thorin seethed.

“Why not?” Bilbo demanded.

He looked ready to start yelling again, but he snapped his mouth shut with a click, putting a hand to his face and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I will not argue with you on this.”

“Oh no,” Bilbo sat up straighter, “it’s too late for that.”

“This is not the time nor is it the place.”

Bilbo sighed. He would have continued on, perhaps even yelling himself, but Thorin looked so drained and fatigued, he took pity on him. “Troubling day?”

Thorin’s hand ran down his face as he chuckled mirthlessly. “Troubled week. Scratch that, _month_.” He rolled his shoulders. “I’m exhausted.”

“I can tell,” Bilbo replied. “Come on,” he got to his feet, grabbing hold of Thorin’s hand and dragging him along. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere you can relax.” There was only one place Thorin ever did relax. “You can rest by my fireplace and I’ll make you a relaxing cup of tea.”

“Thrain wanted me to-”

“No. If you have time to storm into the library and yell at me you have time to sit in my room. Even for a little while.”

Thorin sighed, and Bilbo knew he was resigning himself to the fact that it was useless to argue with Bilbo. Not when he was right. And he was right.

 

 


	12. Braiding

 “See? This is nice.” Bilbo finished a braid at the back of Thorin’s hair. “You don’t have to worry about Princely duties, or anything like that.” He pushed the hair off of Thorin’s shoulder and peered over at him. “I can tell you’re relaxing. You’re not nearly as tense.” He could feel the looseness of the muscles on Thorin’s back where his hands rested, and the slight ruffle where his wings were. “Though your wings feel stiff.”

“They’re always stiff,” Thorin replied gruffly, giving a shrug.

“If you released them from their bindings once in a while they wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“Oh, don’t start that.”

“No. Really.” Bilbo ran his hands in soothing circles along his shoulder blades. “You take the whole binding thing to a religious level.” He even _slept_ with his bindings on. “I remember you weren’t nearly so fastidious about it when we were younger.”

“That was only to make you feel better,” Thorin argued, but relaxed into Bilbo’s touch nonetheless.

“Then let me help you feel better.” It had been a very long time since Bilbo had seen Thorin’s wings, or vice versa, Thorin having insisted Bilbo bind his wings more often when they were still quite young. Bilbo had been confused, but as time passed he grew to understand. This was not the sort of thing friends shared; sometimes even lovers never saw each other’s wings.

Thorin let Bilbo tug off his furs and pull his tunic off, discarding it on the floor. He looked over Thorin’s shoulder, undoing the buckles at the front, and slipped the leather off over his shoulders. Thorin’s wings slowly unravelled, stretching out to a ridiculous length.

Bilbo felt a little embarrassed about the size of his own wings when he compared them to Thorin’s.

“Well,” he stared at the black feathers, looking rough and broken from neglect, “they certainly have gotten bigger since I last saw them.”

“I was a Dwarfling when last you saw them.” Thorin replied gruffly, stretching them out further. “Of course they’ve grown.”

“Well, mine certainly haven’t.” Bilbo reached out and gently smoothing along the bent feathers. Thorin shuddered. “You should have someone take care of them,” he murmured. “They look like they’re broken.” Thorin made no reply, and Bilbo continued to run his fingers through the tangled mess, preening. “I ought to braid them- I _would_ braid them.” He corrected now. “But it seems a bit useless, seeing as they’ll only be bound again.”

“You can braid them,” Thorin replied, voice low and quiet. “I would not mind.”

Bilbo hesitated, knowing 'Thorin would not agree to such an action lightly. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I should wash them first,” he added, considering it. “They’re tangled. It will be easier to braid if they’re clean and brushed.” He had a wash cloth and small tub in his bathroom, which he used to rub his wings down before he slept. “Hold on a moment.” He got to his feet and collected the items, filling the tub up with warm water from the baths. “Here,” he set the tub down and got back to his knees, wringing the cloth out. “You’ll feel much better when I’m done.”

Thorin groaned when the warm water was pressed against his feathers, and Bilbo smiled in amusement, even though he felt his face flush at the same time. “I told you it’d be nice,” he teased, thoroughly cleaning the left wing, stretching it out gently with his spare hand.

“Hush now,” Thorin scolded, and Bilbo could hear the frown in his voice.

He chuckled, fingers running through the feathers, enjoying the silky feeling. “Such a stubborn Dwarf.”

Thorin went very quiet for a long while until Bilbo was finally done; turning him to make his wings faced the fire so they could dry. And then he set to work braiding intricate weaves, winding beads into them. When he finished Thorin’s wings were silky and almost iridescent, looking a fair deal healthier than they had before.

“I would not let anyone do such a thing, you know,” Thorin informed him as he smoothed his fingers along the edges now.

“I’m aware,” Bilbo answered gently.  “But you need someone to look after them. Wings are important. You’re probably making things unnecessarily painful for yourself by neglecting them.”

“I’m not neglecting them," Thorin argued. “I’m simply waiting patiently for my One to stop neglecting them.”

Bilbo’s hands stilled, and the silence that followed seemed painful and far too long.

“Do you mean...?”

“Yes,” Thorin replied almost immediately, tensing, as if preparing for an onslaught, but Bilbo’s voice remained gentle and calm.

“And when were you planning on telling me this?” he wondered quietly.

“Sometime.” He gave a shrug. “I don’t know. I didn’t want to make you... uncomfortable, or make you feel some sense of obligation because we were-”

“Oh, nonsense,” Bilbo waved his words off, shifting so he could face Thorin. “You were either too proud or too scared.” Thorin opened his mouth, but Bilbo cut him off. “Need I remind you that you were so cranky at me for going to Hobbiton that you refused to talk to me during my last day here or see me off when I left?” Thorin looked sheepish. “Actions you have still not apologised for.” He remained silent, waiting.

“You have my most sincere apologies,” Thorin bowed his head respectfully.

Bilbo tried to repress a smile, but it didn’t work. He grinned, leaning up and putting his hands either side of Thorin’s face, touching their lips together softly. “It’s about time,” he laughed now, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “You always did trail behind, you silly Dwarf.”

Relief washed over Thorin’s face, and he grabbed hold of Bilbo, reconnecting their lips and kissing him deeply. When they pulled apart, Thorin rested their foreheads together.

“I thought perhaps you... wanted to leave.” Thorin closed his eyes, looking pained. “I didn’t know what to do. I panicked.”

“And avoided me until I left,” Bilbo finished flatly. “Real smooth, I can see why the people are eager for you to be King.”

Thorin chuckled now. “That is a long time away. We should have very many years before we have to worry about such a thing.”

“We?” Bilbo repeated.

“Well, of course. A King needs a better half, doesn’t he?”

“So I’ll be the silent ruler, shall I?” Bilbo asked now with a mischievous smile. “The power behind the throne?”

“You’ll be my closest confidant,” Thorin replied, looking amused.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I might end up making some unreasonable requests. Like strengthening trade with the Elves of Mirkwood.”

Thorin groaned. “I knew that was coming. Do we not have enough trouble with them already? Our hands are already quite full with cultural issues and you wish to spark more.”

“Well, we have a great many years to argue over it, don’t we?”

“We certainly do.”

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So obviously Thorin's old by Hobbit standards, but in his own culture he's still very young. I just imagine that Thorin is just a young boy who's being forced to act like an adult because of his situation.  
> Also, I sort of imagine wings to be like this extremely private thing for Dwarves, something they only show to their One or whatever.


End file.
